


running up to heaven yeah!

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Character Study, Dancing, Enthusiastic Consent, Flipside POV, Getting Caught Dancing, Hand Jobs, Inspired By Tumblr, Inspired by Fanfiction, Inspired by Music, M/M, Making Out, Rimming, alternate POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-20 21:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16563722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: Prompto thinks he's about worn himself out with his morning run, with the sudden clench of nostalgia around his heart, with dancing to one of his favorite bands -- but maybe the unexpected presence of Noctis in his kitchen might be the thing that finally wears him out.





	running up to heaven yeah!

**Author's Note:**

> After that crushing second-anniversary livestream -- er have some porn?
> 
> And if you follow me on tumblr, I posted the ficlet that this goes with over the previous weekend. Read here: [sky's the limit](https://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/post/179729306786/inevitably-as-these-things-go-ive-found-myself)
> 
> [Seventh Heaven](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VejGqAvy4HY) and [lyrics](https://www.jpopasia.com/larcenciel/lyrics/6942/kiss/seventh-heaven/)

Rust, is what he smells on the air: a distant distinct smell of broken metal, of battered and sharp-edged water left standing in the cracked stones beneath his feet, that he has to be careful to avoid because now is not the time to -- catch his foot against a jutting paving-stone and then go down. Now is not the time to twist his ankle, or scrape his knees any more than they already are, and that not just because of -- the bite in the breeze that catches on his fingertips. The smell of falling leaves, far off, but slowly and steadily coming, and only growing stronger in the shorter and shorter hours between dawn and the actual hints of the sun clearing the horizon.

A blocked one, anyway, considering that he’s doing all his running in the confines of the sprawl that is this district of Insomnia. Small neighborhood and the little standalone houses pressing in on the narrower streets, on the spiderweb-shapes of the pocked and rutted sidewalks. The intersections already starting to fill with people hurrying to catch the subway, early to work, early to school, and sometimes he thinks he’d rather be sitting in one of the cramped cafes with a breakfast that he doesn’t have to make for himself or clean up afterwards -- but he’s already thinking about that first cup of cheap paper-scented coffee even as he makes himself sprint past the woman in the black skirts as she opens the steel-braced windows of her music shop.

The shop on the last corner before he turns around and begins the roundabout route home: and he throws a jaunty salute at the woman as he passes her -- flash of her dark-purple lipstick in her sliver-smile as she shakes her head -- but not to dismiss him.

Maybe not.

He can hope that she’s not laughing at him, at least, in his halfway-rundown running clothes. The tank top that’s maybe a little slouchy on him now, and the very short shorts that are only decent on him because he’s also wearing compression leggings. His battered running shoes and the ragged hairband that’s only marginally stopping his sweat-soaked hair from falling into his eyes.

Twice and thrice around a tree that’s been kept right in the center of an intersection. Everyone has to walk or drive or otherwise go around its spreading roots, confined in a low bank of earth and the hardy little bushes in its shelter. Drooping branches with their ripped leaves, the dangling-string stems -- and the breeze that kicks up just then tears more leaves away, to crunch to pieces and dust beneath his feet so he scatters yellow-brown with every stride. Dust that makes him sneeze and only the early-morning stillness allows him to create his own echoes, that nearly force him to laugh because he sounds strange, hoarse, high-pitched, just coming off the last congested bits of a stupid head cold.

He still goes a little more slowly than he should, because the stitch in his side throbs more sharply than it should, on this morning: and that’s why he has time to peer into the display in the music shop’s window. One single large poster, divided lengthways into four narrow frames. 

Funny, that. Four people on the poster. He catches another cold breath that burns all the way down into his chest, and he doesn’t stop, not entirely -- just slows long enough that he can actually figure out if they’re -- fighting, or playing instruments, or dancing, or -- 

One: green hair, flash of tartan sleeves, neon-orange sunglasses perched askew in a narrow face, grin like beating a final boss on the hardest level of a video game.

Two: bony wrists sticking out of at least two sets of buttoned cuffs, arc of a drumstick on the move, deep lines all around the eyes and the hard-set mouth, and long hair tightly plaited.

Three: lace collars framing shrewd eyes and bottle-blond braids, several colors of sparkling eyeliner smudged prettily together. A scarf of many colors in the same gloved fist that holds the microphone.

Four: top hat over gray-streaked hair, forever ruffled in a blowing wind, and a tail-coat striped in black and white to go with the determined half-a-snarl twisting the stubble-shaded mouth.

And he -- recognizes the four of them, and even knows what song they might all be singing together, with the identical flesh-colored microphones on the headsets that they’re all wearing.

He hasn’t even listened to their music in ages: one of the very first bands he can remember getting into, one of the bands whose songs he’d hummed anxiously to calm himself as he watched over a puppy wrapped clumsily in bandages, and the pained way in which she rolled around in her sleep. Her limp tail, her stained fur, her ears laid flat against her head in a way that still makes him ache to think in the here and now, like wariness that wouldn’t even let her properly rest. 

And he remembers thinking that the band created entire songs and entire albums full of raging driving rhythms, none of which had disturbed the puppy, even when she’d been making her slow way through half a bowl of food and he’d had an entirely wrecked voice, mangling the lyrics of one of the band’s earliest hits that he’d managed to catch on the radio.

He hums that song, back in the here and now and the roar of a car passing him by, the rumble of its tires picking up speed and moving past him, and the woman who owns the shop sticks her tongue out at him over the broom in her hands.

Prompto laughs, with a pang in his heart for missing a dog named Chibi, and somehow he runs at full speed all the way home, his heart and his legs pumping to a frantic drumbeat and the wail of guitars and the lead singer’s powerful voice, and -- 

Jelly-knees and the sweat that runs in a steady stream between his shoulders as he half-kicks the back door of his house open and then locks it again. Pause in the corner to pull off his shorts and then his leggings, and then he puts the shorts back on as he staggers to the refrigerator and pulls out a large clear-plastic pitcher. Fruit-bits bobbing in icy water, and he puts the spout directly to his mouth and drinks until he’s breathless, until he’s cold and until he’s shaking for another reason entirely.

Not the crash of adrenaline but the return of it, and -- he all but drops the pitcher onto the counter next to the sink. Tablet charging next to the refrigerator, and he leaves it propped up -- he sweeps his fingertips over the screen to wake it up and goes immediately to the Moogle search engine. Types in the name of the band, that had been splashed across the bottom of the poster in the music shop.

The band is called _Bahaghari_ \-- he tries to remember the song he’d sung, or tried to sing, for Chibi -- and instead a concert performance catches his eye instead. The band members in the exact same costumes as they had been wearing on the poster. 

He clicks on that one and at the last minute remembers to turn the volume up on the tablet, all the way up, as loud as it will go -- and his reward is the floor beneath his feet rumbling as he kicks off his shoes and -- 

The lead singer screams and so does the audience, and Prompto almost screams back, too -- the track kicks into gear instead and at the very last moment he remembers to push the kitchen table and its chairs away, and he’s watching the band jump into a rhythm that’s almost familiar, that’s almost something he remembers the words to, and -- instead he gives himself over to the movement, to the startling growl of the melody, and he dances --

With the wobble in his knees, with the shiver in his shoulders, with the stitch that persists in his side, with his hands shaking even as he ducks and he weaves, as he jumps in place and turns around and around in breathless circles. The lingering weight in his chest and the way he can’t quite inhale through his nose. 

He dances, and when the song clangs and clashes to an abrupt stop he gasps, he catches his breath, he doubles over and tries to calm himself down. Just enough to drink another swallow of faintly sweet water. Just enough to stop himself from splashing fruit-scent all over his heaving chest and -- he crosses back to the tablet and plays the track again.

This time he lets himself mostly stay in place, mostly, but there’s enough to stomp and to kick and -- he dances, and he’s almost got the words now, and he sings back to the band as they leap through their paces again. 

He can feel the muscles in his legs, in his torso, flexing and protesting, and he lets himself shift his weight from side to side, dancing on planted feet and the swing of his hips -- not quite to imitate the lead singer, oh no, he doesn’t have the style or the stomach to do a proper impression of the guy but -- he does it anyway, he tries, even when he’s about to fall down from the weariness of the morning’s run and the -- weird powerful weight of missing the dog that had been his friend, the dog that had led him to a lot of other strange and amazing and wonderful things and --

Somewhere in the whirl of his mind, somewhere in the movement of his body, somewhere somehow he becomes aware of someone else breathing -- someone else, someone he knows, someone he trusts and who -- amazingly -- has broken that trust only a handful of times, in only a handful of small ways. Nothing bigger than -- stealing candy, copying the best line out of an essay, getting out of a stupid silly test.

For everything else, this other person has been with him, has stuck by his side, and -- maybe he’s stuck by his side as much as Prompto himself has stuck by his. 

How, how that’s happened, how he’s had the gift of seeing the fucking Crown Prince of Lucis staring at him right now with some kind of incredible awe in his face, in his eyes, in every tense line of him and the outstretched hand that Prompto has managed to seize -- he stops thinking, then. Lets the song and the rhythm take him over and he only raises an eyebrow, only asks in the tilt of his head, and Noctis is -- following his lead.

Following him, falling into him, and Prompto grins and they’re at the point in the song where the lead singer and the lead guitarist snarl at each other, faces so close like his and Noctis’s are now: “Come on come on baby -- ”

He knows he’s down to his last reserves of the day’s energy -- he knows that from the unsteady way his hands land on Noctis’s shoulders to haul him in -- and he knows he doesn’t have to think, once or twice or any number of times. 

Nothing doing today, right? Nothing important? Then he’ll crash after this, blindly, happily, gratefully -- he’ll give Noctis all the last bits of himself -- he’ll dash himself to pieces on the shores of Noctis -- 

“Come on come on Noctis,” and he just about recognizes the tell-tale rasp in his own words. The thump of need in his skin, needling, glowing, growing hotter.

And it doesn’t matter that his hands are unsteady, or damp with sweat: because he’s pulling at the layers of Noctis’s school-uniform jacket and the t-shirts he wears beneath the button-down because he hates the cold, and Noctis is pressing in closer against him, is clutching back almost to the point of being in Prompto’s actual way -- and he groans, he growls -- he wants Noctis’s hands to dig into his skin and leave bruises, he wants Noctis’s marks on him, he wants he wants he wants -- and then he’s looking down at Noctis, who is right there on the table, wide-eyed, the flush on his face almost dark enough to obscure the sweat in the roots of his hair.

And Noctis already looks like he’s been kissed senseless and breathless, and as far as Prompto knows, Noctis just got here, and Prompto’s only just started to touch him.

Noctis’s mouth is hanging open, caught somewhere between a grin and a plea -- dimly Prompto remembers the echoes and the vibration of a shout trapped between them -- a single sound that was half a command, too, and who is he, then, to deny himself, or Noctis?

Noctis who is spread out on the table, and somehow they’ve worked his layers off and Prompto almost moves to shed his tank top, too -- but that’s Noctis’s hand on his wrist and -- he’s shaking his head, he’s smiling, he’s muttering. “It’s -- you don’t have to. I like looking at you like that.”

“I don’t know what that means, Noctis,” and somehow he finds it in himself to tease -- but that’s all he can do before a new pulse overtakes the throb of the music that had been moving him earlier. 

A new pulse, that makes him sprawl out atop Noctis, deliberately press down on him, and his reward is Noctis hissing and arching upwards. The convulsive movement of hips trapped against the table -- and Prompto smiles, shakes his head. Deliberately puts his hand down lightly over Noctis’s open flies, and -- again Noctis gasps and tries to move toward him, or move him closer -- he feels the movement of a foot, trying to hook around his ankle, and Prompto can’t help but laugh.

“I’ll let you up if that’s what you really want,” he says, not really knowing where he’s getting the words from, the ideas from, although the very idea of Noctis squirming needy and desperate beneath him is the best sort of impulse, the best sort of sharp spurs to the heat that burns and burns in his blood. “Or I can make you feel really really good, what do you want?”

“Don’t have to choose, don’t wanna, I want you, I want this, I want -- ”

Six, Noctis is babbling, and he has to see.

Wide-eyed beneath him when he pulls away -- blown-wide pupils of Noctis’s eyes, and the thinnest rim of storm-blue, of dusk-shades. 

Prompto can’t help but groan, can’t help but lean in to kiss him sweet and tender -- but again Noctis bucks up against him and Prompto nips at him, retaliating, deciding -- nips again just for the fun of it, rougher now, and he grins and pulls away when Noctis tries to bite back.

How lovely Noctis is, spread out for the taking like he is now.

So Prompto -- takes, thoughts spinning dizzily back to the song that had gotten them here in the first place, the words and the rhythm: he latches on to the junction between Noctis’s neck and shoulder and licks, lightly, skin trembling beneath his mouth as he tastes salt and the lingering linen-scent of pillows, of leather and something else, something heavier, layer of heaviness on his tongue. Kisses up to Noctis’s ear and -- he doesn’t bite, not really, not there. Just pulls at the lobe with his lips, gently as he can because he’s seen Noctis shy away from too much contact around his eyes, around his ears -- that’s the only reason why he pulls back and smiles, so close Noctis’s eyes almost cross to focus on him.

“Prom?”

“Noctis,” he says, brushing another kiss over that burnished mouth.

“Want you, want you.”

“Yeah.”

And it’s easy to make good on his word, after all: it’s easy, it’s so good, and he loves getting lost in it, lost in Noctis, as he pushes all of the layers between them away, falling, and this time there’s no complaint to trip him up. This time there’s just the sweat and the soft cries between him and Noctis as he runs his hands to trace the quiver of muscles beneath damp skin. Flutter of a powerful heartbeat beneath his hand, that he spreads over Noctis’s chest. 

Fighting heart, Noctis’s heart, despite the cords of scar muscle that even magic can’t soothe away, reaching around Noctis’s ribcage.

Prompto kisses the prominent scar-loop on Noctis’s chest: a small raised bump of too-smooth skin -- he presses in the warmth of his mouth around, so Noctis will feel it, and his reward is the sigh, and the hands winding into his hair, not at all pulling.

He glances up again and Noctis is still watching him with that avid light in his eyes -- but there’s tenderness, now, in that glance, too -- tenderness returned, and Prompto resists the temptation to look away. Just lets it show for that moment before -- he gets down to his knees.

He loses sight of Noctis’s eyes that way, but here he can kiss Noctis’s thighs, here he can push Noctis’s knees apart -- he braces one of Noctis’s legs over his shoulder, turns that knee out and to the side, and the sound of realization that he gets is a long low groan, half a song in its own right, and at the end of it is the shaky repetition of his name. “Prom. You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he murmurs, and a muscle in Noctis’s leg jumps when he turns his head, when he brushes the words against hot skin. “But I like to -- and right now I want to.”

“Fuck,” he hears Noctis say, again, in response. A quiet rasp, this time. 

Pull, hitching Noctis a little off the edge of the table, so he can lean in closer; he kisses past the jut of Noctis’s cock, hard curve of it that leads down to the weight of drawn-up balls, tight and tense.

Lower, lower, Prompto’s aiming lower, and now Noctis is shifting, is moving to meet him, and Prompto huffs out a soft laugh before he leans in. Before he flattens his tongue against fluttering muscle, secret pucker, hot against his mouth.

And the sounds falling from Noctis’s mouth, somewhere above him, are better than a song: the repeating fragmented sounds of encouragement, of obscenities that he probably shouldn’t even know, of Prompto’s own name -- over and over again, as Prompto opens him up. 

As Prompto eats him out, slow and sloppy, drowning in the musk of Noctis and the nearly-continuous shiver of him. Taking his time.

“You -- you’re going to, Prom, stop stop please I’m going to come -- ”

“Yeah?” And he pulls away. Sticks his own fingers into his mouth, gets them wet and -- the next time he licks a long wet stripe over Noctis’s rim he pushes one fingertip in, slowly. 

“Not gonna break,” he hears, something like a whine.

“Just gonna come,” he laughs, when he catches another breath.

“Prom, fuck, don’t -- ”

“Noct?” He nearly gets to his feet then, hearing the desperate growl in that voice.

“Don’t stop!”

He lets himself laugh into Noctis’s thigh, and then -- leans back in. Tongue, and he introduces a second finger alongside the first. Digits moving, setting up a cautious rhythm, to the song that still roars in Prompto’s blood -- and then he’s had enough of lingering, of being gentle, of letting Noctis hang off that sweet precipice. 

He takes the direct route, and lets his fingers hook gently into the sweet spot inside Noctis. Pressing in, again and again, steady push, steady build -- 

And the song is cut short when he feels Noctis go utterly still on his hand, on his mouth -- just for a second before Noctis starts shaking like he’s trying to fly apart, shakes on the violent sweet rush of orgasm that Prompto feels and hears and tastes.

He leans away, chews on the inside of his own cheek, as Noctis swears his way down into after, as Noctis slowly calms down -- and only then does he pull his fingers out, too.

He makes himself sit back on the floor -- fatigue doesn’t hit him, this time, not like running face-first into a wall. It simply clamps itself into his skin with hooks and barbs. Leaves him with his head hanging down, his shoulders cramping, fresh low throb of pain in his hips and thighs -- 

Which is why he can only yelp when somehow Noctis doesn’t quite fall into his lap: but there he is, thighs carefully bracketing him. Hands, levering him to look up, gently, supporting. “You look wasted, and I just came my brains out.” 

“I was running,” he says. “Before this.”

“Figured that out from the clothes.” Noctis’s speech is slow and slurred with something like the satisfaction of a dog and its bone, and the entire thought makes Prompto laugh at him, just a little. 

“Rude, but I’ll forgive you this time,” and before Prompto can even figure out what he’s trying to say -- he gasps, feeling the calluses of Noctis’s hand -- the hand that’s wrapping deliberate and so heavy around his cock. That grip, knowing, to match the grin pulling at the corner of Noctis’s mouth, the flash of sharp teeth. 

He could drown in nothing more than the sensation of Noctis’s fist around his cock, pumping slow showy -- but then the weight of Noctis’s free hand catches at him, thumb and forefinger spanning the space between his cheek and his jawline. Levering his gaze down and -- 

“Watch,” Noctis is murmuring to him, and he feels the heat climb all the way up his neck, all the way up to his eyebrows.

“Noct -- ” He has to catch his breath. Not only can he feel the weight of that hand on him -- there’s nothing left for him to do but also watch that movement, the grip that catches at him, that forces him to catch his breath. The nail, catching just beneath the damp head. The thumb, playing with the skin. The fingertip, pressing into the slit. 

He forces himself to look at Noctis. “You -- ”

“Gonna come for me?”

It’s not even any kind of command but -- when he hears Noctis speak, when he sees Noctis smile -- he feels his thoughts break into pieces and fly away from him, and all he can really do is moan, and shake, and -- he doesn’t even try to hold back. Doesn’t fight it -- he can’t fight Noctis like this -- he gasps, “Hurry -- ”

“Yeah,” he hears, distantly, the world starting to blur out at last and somehow he finds the strength to cover his mouth and the shout that would have filled the house, when he buckles at last -- tears in the corners of his eyes, too, and the mild mutter of Noctis as he wipes his hand off on -- Prompto’s shirt.

The exact same Noctis who is grinning sweet and flushed and smug -- damn him.

And he’s still somehow strong enough to get back to his own feet -- unassisted -- and then to pull Prompto up too. 

“What,” Prompto begins, as he’s led into his own bedroom, as he’s pushed over gently to topple into his pillows, more or less face-first. “Noct.”

That gets him the entire weight of Noctis pressing down on him, draped hot and heavy all along his back, and he can’t help but arch up into him. Can’t help but hiss and wiggle back, despite all the deadweight of his fatigue and his blissed-out nerves, into Noctis’s hand playful and possessive on his ass.

But: “Sleep,” is what he hears, as Noctis rolls and pulls him along, so he’s on his side and Noctis is still clutching at him, his back to Noctis’s front. “It’s okay.”

“Okay,” he says, and then -- just before sleep drags him down -- he hears the echoes of the song he’d been dancing to, faintly, in the back of his head, and now it’s all woven into the breath and the pulse and the presence of Noctis.

**Author's Note:**

> (I DID change the name of the band in this fic just for the sake of -- covering my ass. XD The French phrase and the Filipino word mean the same thing anyway!)
> 
> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/) \-- I'm gonna be around for quite a while yet!


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